P  S 

3537 

A78 

D8 

1917 

MAIN          EDWARD    SAP1R 


>REAMS  AND  GIBES 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


Dreams  and  Gibes 


BY 


EDWARD   SAPIR 


BOSTON 

THE  POET  LORE  COMPANY 
THE  GORHAM  PRESS 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  EDWARD  SAPIR 
All  Rights  Reserved 


iph  of  a  Philosopher  appeared  in  Tke  Roycroft  Anthology 
The  Moth  in  The  Minaret.    They  are  here  reproduced 
through  the  courtesy  of  these  magazines. 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 
MY   WIFE 


Aw 


470161 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MISLABELED  MENAGERIE  .......  9 

MONKS  IN  OTTAWA n 

THE  BUILDERS 12 

THE  BLIND  MAN 13 

THE  OLD  MAN 14 

THE  MAN  OF  LETTERS 15 

THE   PROFESSOR 16 

THE  METAPHYSICIAN 16 

EPITAPH  OF  A  PHILOSOPHER 17 

THE  CLERGYMAN 18 

THE  LEARNED  JEW 20 

THE  WOMAN  ON  THE  BRIDGE 22 

To  A  MAIDEN  SWEET  AND  PURE 23 

THE  STENOGRAPHER 24 

To  A  RECRUITING  GIRL 26 

PROFESSORS  IN  WAR-TIME 27 

How  DIPLOMATS  MAKE  WAR 28 

EPITAPH  OF  A  SOLDIER 3° 

THE  OLD  MAID  AND  THE  PRIVATE 30 

DELILAH 3* 

THE  REPORTER  CONGRATULATES  THE  ORATOR  ...  34 

THE  PAINTING 34 

THE  DAINTY  AND  THE  HUNGRY  MAN       .      .      .      .  35 

THE  WATER  NYMPH 38 

CURTAINS 43 

MY  BOY 45 

DANDELIONS 46 

THE  OTHER  SIDE 47 

MUTUAL  UNDERSTANDING 49 

A  CONVERSATION 50 

THE  DREAMER  FAILS  OF  SUCCESS 50 

5 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DISCORDS 53 

LOVE 54 

OUR  LOVE        . 55 

DANGLING  CORPSES 56 

To  DEBUSSY 57 

DIRTY  SPRING .58 

AN  EASTER  DAY 59 

SUMMER  IN  THE  WOODS 60 

BEFORE  THE  STORM 62 

A  MOONLESS  NIGHT 62 

THE  RAIN 63 

WATER 63 

THE  MOTH 64 

HELPLESS  REVOLT 64 

LIBERTY      .....      65 

DUST         66 

WINGS 66 

LONELINESS 67 

VEXATION 68 

SNARED 69 

THE  SOUL 70 

A  PRAYER  FOR  PRESERVATION 72 


DREAMS  AND  GIBES 


THE  MISLABELED  MENAGERI£ 

I  took  a  trip  to  the  menagerie 

To  see  the  bear,  opossum,  kangaroo, 

Rhinoceros  and  elephant,  and  all 

My  other  friends  whom  oft  I'd  wondered   at 

Behind  their  bars.     They're  fascinating  things 

To  gaze  upon — each  seems  a  perfect  symbol 

Incarnate  of  human  virtue  or  of  vice 

Or  oftenest  of  mirth-compelling  foible. 

That's  why  I  look  at  them  as  medicine. 

Just  think  your  social-climbing  friend 

Who  leaves  you  in  the  lurch  as  nimbly  he  jumps 

From  eminence  to  eminence  until 

He  loses  sight  of  you  down  in  the  valley, 

Just  think  him  carcassed  in  a  kangaroo — 

Are  you  revenged  or  not?  and  would  you  change 

With  him?     That's  why  I  think  zoology 

Is  worth  one's  serious  while — it  soothes  the  nerves. 

Hold  on,  I'm  getting  off  the  track;  I  started 

To  tell  you  how  I  went  to  see  my  friends 

Of  the  menagerie.     And  first  the  bear 

I  visited,  but  in  his  den,  if  den 

You'd  call  it,  I  beheld  a  monkey  frisk 

And  scamper  round  as  though  the  label,  Ursus, 

Were  meant  for  him,  so  much  at  home  he  seemed. 

I  moved  on  to  the  ostrich  cage  and  saw 

A  camel  gravely  chew  the  cud  and  squint 

At  me  as  though  to  say,  "Too  bad,  my  friend, 

About  that  ostrich  label.     Were  he  you, 

He'd  stick  his  head  in  the  sand,  thus  deftly 

Annihilate  the  label,  and  his  peace 

Of  ostrich  mind  regain."     An  Orient  look 

Of  wisdom  spread  along  the  camel's  face. 


And  when  J  came  to  where  I'd  always  seen 
The  tiger  nobly  lash  his  tail  and  found 
A  fox  ignobly  point  his  tail  to  earth, 
I  knew  I'd  come  to  Topsyturvydom. 
The  elephant  was  labeled  ass,  the  ass 
Had  grown  a  mane  and  pair  of  lion's  ears — 
Or  so  the  label  gravely  said, — the  lion 
Had  shrunk,  it  seemed,  into  a  porcupine. 

"A  fussing  pedagogue,  no  doubt,  has  tried 

His    hand,"    I    thought,    "on    some    new    labeling 

scheme." 
Just  then  I  met  a  keeper.     "What's  the  trouble, 

friend?" 

I  asked,  "these  labels  are  all  wrong."    "Oh,  well," 
Said  he,  "we  only  moved  the  animals 
This  morning,  and  we've  not  got  round  as  yet 
To  move  the  labels.     We'll  attend  to  that." 

Discomfited,  I  turned  to  go,  and  mused 
Upon  my  way.     I  ran  my  human  friends 
All  through  the  label  gauntlet  and  a  flash — 
Like  Archimedes'  famed  Eureka — flamed 
Across  my  mind.     Why,  yes,  mislabeled  all! 
Mislabeled  all!     The  grocer — was  he  not 
A  sturdy  disputant  in  politics? 
His  label  should  have  "statesman"  been,  no  less. 
The  mayor — hard  to  say,  but  I've  no  doubt 
That  "grocer"  would  have  served.     Of  clergymen 
I  know,  two  should  have  "broker"  called  themselves 
And  one  just  "simpleton."    "Philanthropist" 
Is  just  the  word,  or  should  be,  for  the  soul 
That  comes  each  month  to  buy  my  rags  and  bottles, 
A  starving  tender-hearted  wretch.    And  so 
With  all  the  rest  of  them — mislabeled  all! 

10 


MONKS  IN  OTTAWA 

Right  on  the  busy  street  I  saw  them — 

Two  big  fat  hulking  plodding  forms, 

Strangely  stuck  in  the  hurly-burly 

Like  creeping  flies  in  seething  amber. 

They  jostled  the  present — - 

Clank  of  trolley-cars, 

Lumbering  whir  of  autos  skidding  past, 

Mincing   French-heeled    girls   with    brown    porous 

stockings 

Coquettishly  ribboned  between  petticoat  and  shoes, 
Newsboys, 
A  crowd  seeking  fulfilment  of  hope  from  the  news 

bulletin, 
Catastrophic  pictures  stuck  in  front  of  the  movie 

theatres — 

They  jostled  the  present, 
They  smelt  of  the  past, 
Plodding  on  imperturbably. 

And  when  my  eye  first  caught  them, 
"Mother  of  God!"  said  something  within  me, 
"Holy,  holy!    Bosh  perhaps,  but  holy! 
Ascetic  purity  and  mystic  contemplation, 
Prayer,  flagellation ! 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi, 
God,  Church,   Pope,  candles,   faith!" 
And  when  I  came  up  close — 
They  looked  like  pregnant  women 
Wrapped  in  heavy  brown  robes, 
Wearing  sandals, 

And  I  got  a  glimpse  of  a  heavy  silver  crucifix 
Tortured  with  crude  suffering — 
I  heard  them  mumbling  in  their  rumbling  voices — 
Aux  champignons  I  fancied  I  could  disentangle — 
And  they  were  munching  peanuts. 
II 


THE  BUILDERS 

With  confident  smile,  robust,  clean-limbed 

Of  soul,  you  see  the  world  as  a  jumble 

Of  millions  of  little  blocks  that  have  tumbled  from 
their  places 

Or  have  not  tumbled  into  them  ; 

And  you,  and  others  clean-limbed  like  yourself, 

Roll  up  your  sleeves  and  spade  them  up  in  heaps 

And  disentangle  them  one  by  one, 

Then  carefully  you  place  each  block  square  to  its 
neighbor 

And  rear  up  palaces. 

They're  never  finished,  for  the  wind  and  hail  and 
rain 

Will  mock  at  them. 

You  do  your  best  to  keep  them  in  repair, 

What  little  time  you  have  left  over  from  the  spad 
ing  of  more  blocks. 

I  like  your  ruined  palaces — 

A  little  angular  perhaps — 

I  cannot  but  like  them  when  I  see  you, 

Confidently  smiling,  robust,  clean-limbed  of  soul, 

Bending  in  pride  over  them. 

And  yet  my  eyes  rebel — 

Short-sighted  am  I  or  else  you  suffer  from  illusions, 

which  ? — 

I  do  not  seem  to  see  these  blocks 
(I  see  your  geometric  palaces) 
But  only  finely  powdered  stuff 
That  lends  itself  to  shifting  forms  and  fancies. 
I,  too,  build  palaces — 
You  say  they're  formless? — 
Palaces  of  gracious  curve  and  shifting  color. 
12 


The  wind  and  hail  and  rain  cannot  harm  them, 
For  they  shift  of  themselves  chameleon-like. 
It's  as  you  will — 
I'd  rather  work  in  powder  than  in  blocks. 

THE  BLIND  MAN 

Stone  blind.     That's  why  they  could  not  fool  him. 
When  they  talked  to  him,  he  heard  the  words, 
And,   more  than   words,   he  heard   the  heart   that 

pulsed  beneath. 

As  he  sat  in  his  lonely  hall  of  eternal  night, 
His  soul  was  quick  to  catch  each  fleeting  nuance 
Of  the  voice,  each  tell-tale  accent  lost  to  seeing  ears. 
Candor  and  hypocrisy,  like  as  two  peas,  he  held  apart 

as  easily 

As  grain  from  chaff, 
For  he  was  stone  blind,  and  could  not  be  deceived. 


THE   OLD   MAN 

Yes,  I  am  old.     My  sons  are  grown  and  wed, 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  end  my  days 
In  peace  and  dull  content.     I've  had  my  fill 
Of  life  and  pleasure,  too — of  love  and  joy 
Of  strife  and  fruits  of  combat — and  a  dream 
Or  two  have  bathed  my  daily  round  in  gold, 
In  misty  gold  that  interposed  itself 
Between  me  and  the  chilly  air  of  fact — 
How  can  one  else  drag  out  his  days  and  keep 
His  heart  unseared?     But  now  that  age  has  clung 
To  me  with  gently  mocking  smile  (as  though 
To  say,  "You  cannot  shake  me  off"),  I  need 
No  golden  mist  to  shield  me.     I  can  see 
Unruffled  what  in  younger  days  might  well 
Have  chilled  my  ardor,  dulled  the  edge  of  life, 
For  now  I  know  that  such  is  naught  but  sauce 
To  flavor  with  its  irony  the  dish 
Of  life.     The  vinegar  that  poisons  youth 
(And  hence  in  self-defence  they  dub  it  wine) 
I  welcome  with  the  sweet.     They  call  me  old, 
The  young  ones,  knowingly  contend  that  I 
Have  lost  my  step  and  fallen  out  of  line, 
And  say  I've  not  the  faculty  to  taste 
Their  vintages.     I  say  their  vintages 
Are  just  the  same  old  liquid  (sourish  stuff) 
We  used  to  sip,  but  dished  in  bottles  new. 
They  smile  contempt,  I  answer  back  with  grin 
Of  "Wait  and  see."    They  say  I'm  way  behind 
The  times ;  I  chuckle  "That  may  be,  but  you 
Run  hard!  catch  up  with  me  and  Father  Time." 


THE  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

He  had  a  stock  of  pretty  heirlooms, 

Left  him  by  his  aunts  and  grandames,  grandames  of 

his  aunts,  and  aunts  of  grandames. 
All  his  life  he  played  with  them  and  sorted  them 
And  built  up  pretty  patterns  out  of  them, 
Graceful  and  shiny; 

Circles,  crosses,  diamonds,  and  swastikas  he  made, 
And  toyed  with  shapes  refreshingly  irregular, 
As  when  he'd  dent  a  kink  into  a  rigid  square 
And    talk    of    a    wayward    frolicking    Gypsy-like 

rhythm. 

He  grew  to  be  exquisitely  expert  with  dainty  shapes. 
But  when  he  wished  to  make  a  solid  masterpiece, 
He  filched  a  coat  or  waistcoat  from  his  neighbor, 
Strung  his  trinkets  on  in  circles,  crosses,  diamonds, 

and  swastikas 

And  lo!  the  thing  had  mass  and  glitter,  too. 
"Sublime!"  the  people  said,  "  'tis  solid  matter 
Decked  with  subtle  art," 

And  lauded  most  the  noble  garment  underneath. 
His  right  eye  slyly  winked  his  left: 
"Stick  your  pretty  baubles  on  your  neighbor's  coat, 
They'll  call  it  yours." 

I  gave  my  literary  friend  a  thought. 
He  made  a  volume  out  of  it 

And  now,  they  say,   he  sits  with   Chesterton  and 
Shaw. 


THE   PROFESSOR 

I  doubt  if  you  know  how  wise  I  am. 

Last  year  I  published  a  heavy  tome 

Of  well-nigh  eight-hundred  pages. 

The  subject?     It  matters  not; 

But  this  I  know,  that  only  two  men  in  the  world 

Understood   (or  partly  understood)   its  learned  fill. 

One  was  a  spectacled  privat-docent  in  Bonn, 

The  other  was  myself. 

And  yet  some  Philistines  begrudge  my  salary! 

THE    METAPHYSICIAN 

I  watched  the  dog 

As  he  chased  his  tail 

Merrily,  merrily  round. 

Once  he  thought  he  had  it, 

Then  he  yelped  with  glee ; 

But  no,  he  found  he  was  in  error, 

So  had  to  chase  his  tail  once  more 

Merrily,  merrily  round. 

I  cannot  say  if  he's  at  it  yet — 
I  left  him  as  busy  as  ever. 


16 


EPITAPH  OF  A  PHILOSOPHER 

I  had  a  perfect  system  when  I  lived, 

Flawless,  water-proof  to  fallacy; 

The  world  but  seemed  a  string  of  episodes 

Each  born  to  prove  my  system. 

Nature  and  Man  and  God  were  each  assigned  a 

comfortable  niche 

And  Art  and  Law  both  fitted  like  a  glove. 
But  ever  since  they  dug  a  hole  for  me, 
To  meditate  in  till  the  further  reach  of  time, 
I've  thought  out  many  systems  more — 
One  a  day's  about  my  average — 
And  lo!  each  system  fits  more  perfectly  than  any 

other. 

Of  late  I've  tried  to  find  a  system 
Unsusceptible  of  flawless  demonstration; 
Alas!    I  have  not  found  one  yet. 
O  gentle  tombstone-visitor,  have  you? 


THE  CLERGYMAN 

I  met  him  in  the  smoker  of  a  Montreal-bound  Pull 
man. 

At  first  his  uncleft  collar,  separated  from  a  pair  of 
shrewdly  twinkling  eyes 

By  energetic  chin  and  Roman  nose, 

Kept  me  distant,  for  I'm  not  a  cleric-fancier. 

We  were  alone,  he  studying  his  railroad  folder — 
times  of  leaving  and  arriving — 

I  yawning  as  I  looked  for  pretty  faces  in  a  theatre 
magazine. 

We  could  not  keep  it  up — 

The  silence  hurt,  it  dinned  so  in  our  ears. 

The  weather  ran  the  gauntlet  first, 

The  crops  and  prospects  for  a  ready  flow  of  money 

Seemed  to  occupy  us  gravely  next, 

A  little  politics  for  entree  brought  us  to  the  anec 
dotal  stage. 

We  got  quite  chummy,  he  and  I — 

Three  hours  or  so  we  had  to  let  each  know 

How  clever  t'other  was. 

He  told  some  good  ones — oh,  most  proper  ones, 

But  good  ones. 

My  wares  he  sampled  like  a  connoisseur — 

Shrieking  with  laughter  when  'twas  safe, 

Rocking   back  and   forth, 

Slapping  his  hands  down  on  his  knees; 

And  when  'twas  safe,  but  not  so  safe, 

He  laughed  again  but  did  without  the  shrieking, 
rocking,  slapping; 

And  when  you  could  not  call  it  safe  (according  to 
the  parlor  code), 

18 


He  smiled  an  angel's  smile  and,  in  the  manner  of  a 
lightning-rod, 

He  told  one  of  his  own, 

A  good  one — O,  most  proper, 

But  still  a  good  one. 

He  had  an  endless  stock,  but  I  soon  tired 

And  turned  the  talk  to  church. 

There,  too,  his  fund  was  inexhaustible: 

Statistics,  Red  Cross  benefits,  a  hundred  shifts  to 
interest  the  young, 

Amateur  theatricals  and  lectures  on  the  Eskimo, 

All  these  and  much  besides  he  spoke  of  with  au 
thority. 

We  passed  the  time  most  entertainingly. 

The  train  pulled  into  town; 

We  parted  friends,  exchanging  cards  and  club  ad 
dresses. 

I  hurried  to  the  office,  thinking  him  over. 

"Good  sort/'  I  mused,  "a  human  chap, 

As  human  as  they  make  them; 

Leaves  his  religious  dope  at  home  when  up  against 
a  man." 

And  then  I  wondered  for  a  second 

(I'd  reached  the  office  building,  had  no  time  to 
bother  thinking), 

"Does  he  leave  religious  dope  at  home 

When  up  against  his  crowd  in  church?" 


THE  LEARNED  JEW 

His  learning  was  a  many-chambered  treasure-house. 
He  knew  the  Sabbath  and  the  week-day  rituals  by 

heart 
And  in  a  trice  could  mumble  off  in  prayer  a  dozen 

pages 
Of  the  closest  printed  type,  while  thinking  of  his 

slender  weekly  gains. 
He  knew  the  Pentateuch  by  heart  and  freely  used  its 

wordy  commentators 
To  salt  the  bon-mots  of  his  daily  life. 
Did  you  dare  to  quote  a  passage  from  the  sacred 

book — 
Anywhere  from  Genesis  to  Chronicles  (the  Hebrew 

version  has  them  last)  — 

And  slur  a  vowel  or  misplace  a  prefixed  article, 
Beware !  he'd  pounce  upon  you,  smile  contempt,  and 

make  you  feel  a  fumbling  school-boy; 
He'd  clean   forget  the  reverence  due  a  well-filled 

pocket-book — 
Money's  a  thing  of  earth,  philology's  a  thing  of 

God! 

The  Talmud  was  his  favorite  picnic-ground; 

Give  him  a  heavy  tome  (one  of  the  Babylonian  set) 

Wherein  the  cryptic  Aramaic  text  is  swallowed 

In    the   enormous   welter   of   the    Hebrew   glosses, 
exegesis,  disputatious  hairier-splitting, 

Give  him  this  and  three  or  four  long-bearded  dis 
putants 

To  wrestle  with  him  for  the  uttermost  possession 
of  the  law  divine 

(By  aid  of  frenzied  gestures  and  an  intonation  slid 
ing  recklessly  from  roof  to  cellar), 
20 


Give  him  this  and  let  him  split  a  split  hair  finer  yet 
(Sometimes  he'd  catch  the  Rabbi  napping,  bowl  him 

over  with  an  exegetic  point) , 
And  he  was  happier  than  any  hobby-riding  child. 
The  Talmud  was  his  dreamland  refuge  from  the 

world. 

What  was  his  outward  shell  ?  What  met  the  Gen 
tile's  eye? 

Why,  merely  this :  he  kept  a  peanut  stand  on  Hester 
Street. 


21 


THE  WOMAN  ON  THE  BRIDGE 

I  passed  her  on  the  bridge; 
Her  image  is  with  me  yet, 
And  I  shall  not  soon  forget 
The  sadness  of  her  face. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget 
Her  pinched  and  haggard  face; 
I  would  I  could  erase 
The  memory  of  her  eyes, 

Her  eyes  that  empty  stared 
Into  an  empty  air, 
Her  eyes  that  did  not  dare 
To  look  at  what  they  saw. 

And  her  thin  and  bony  frame 
And  the  narrow  chest  so  flat — 
But  her  eyes,  her  eyes,  'twas  that 
That  I  cannot  forget. 

0  Lord,  her  eyes  have  bored 
Themselves  into  my  soul, 
The've  bored  themselves  a  hole 
Into  my  aching  heart. 

1  have  not  seen  her  since, 
I  do  not  know  her  tale, 
But  this  I  know  without  fail, 
Her  life  is  misery. 


22 


TO  A  MAIDEN  SWEET  AND  PURE 

Yes,  you  are  sweet  and  pure; 
Your  eyes  are  calm  and  open, 
Looking  straight  at  me  without  a  blink. 
Your  hair  is  neatly  parted, 
Neatly  braided  and  beribboned. 
Your  lips  are  parted  daintily, 
Your  teeth — I'd  call  them  pearls, 
Were  not  the  praise  so  hackneyed. 
And  your  smile  is  very  pleasant  to  behold, 
Bright  and  sunny. 

And  all  about  you  floats  an  air  of  purity 
So  fresh,  it  were  most  base  to  blow  the  wind  of 
passion. 

Ah  me,  you're  charming,  girl,  and  very  sweet, 

And  yet  there's  want  in  you  of  still  more  charm. 

And  shall  I  tell  you  why? 

But  then  you  must  not  look  at  me  so  open-eyed, 

So  straight  at  me  without  a  blink. 

I  would  your  eyes  were  stormier, 

I  would  they  gave  a  hint  of  ruffled  waters  under 
neath  ; 

I  would  about  your  head  there  rayed 

A  silky  aureole  of  saucy  straying  hair, 

Not  quite  so  neatly  prisoned; 

I  would  your  pearly  teeth  were  strung 

Not  quite  so  motionless  between  your  daintily  parted 
lips; 

And  most  of  all  I  would  your  smile 

Were  sunny  warmth  instead  of  sunny  light  alone. 

I  would  not  have  your  purity  less  fresh  and  pure, 

I  would  but  have  it  crown  a  glowing  maidenhood, 

Not  merely  grace  a  perfect  calm; 

I  would,  you  maiden  sweet  and  pure, 

I  would  some  hidden  yearning 

Were  mirrored  well  nigh  imperceptibly 

Jn    our  sweet  countenance. 


THE  STENOGRAPHER 

The  minutes  lengthen  into  hours,  the  hours  stretch 
out  to  days, 

Day  follows  day,  day  follows  day. 

Hour   after  hour  I  click  the  typewriter 

And  grind  out  words  and  words  and  yet  more 
words. 

Sometimes  I  cramp  my  fingers  round  a  pencil 

And  set  it  racing  o'er  the  pad 

In  swift  obedience  to  my  boss's  voice, 

I  let  it  dance  a  headlong  dance  of  splashing  drib 
bling  strokes — 

These,  too,  are  words  and  words  and  yet  more 
words. 

Sometimes  I'm  all  alone, 

Sometimes  the  fingers  droop,  forgetful  of  their  task, 

Leaving  my  thoughts  to  roam  unfettered  in  a  garden, 

To  climb  a  hillock  and  to  spy  the  distant  land. 

The  land  is  covered  with  a  mist, 

Warm  and  palpitating; 

And  from  its  bosom  floats  to  me  a  fragrance  that 

intoxicates, 

And  flames  leap  forth, 
Aud  luring  sounds  are  wafted  to  me 
And  sometimes  I  catch  a  syllable  or  two 
That  make  me  blush  with  pleasure  and  with  shame. 
But  sometimes  from  the  bosom  of  the  mist 
Come  cooling  breezes,  honey-laden, 
That  play  about  my  head  and  brush  caresses  on  my 

hair 
And  leave  their  honey  on  my  lips  and  on  my  drowsy 

eyes. 

24 


"O  land  of  mist,  O  land  of  hope,  O  land  of  wild  de 
sire! 

What  have  you,  blessed  flaming  land,  in  store  for 
me?" 

Sometimes   my   thoughts    unfettered    in   a   garden 

roam, 

Yet  not  to  tarry  long. 
A  moment  jolts  me  back  to  stare  at  keyboard  and 

the  letter  still  unfinished; 
Then  there's  "As  per  your  order  of  the  7th"  and  all 

the  rest  of  it  to  do. — 

You  see,  I  do  not  always  click  the  typewriter, 
I   do  not   always   dash   the  pencil  on  its  dancing 

course. 


TO  A  RECRUITING  GIRL 

Silly  girl! 

Urge  him  not  on  to  slaughter  and  to  sacrifice  of 

self 

With  your  reproachful  eyes, 
With  your  scornful  beauty. 
Let  him  wrestle  with  himself 
And  see  the  light 
As  'tis  given  him  to  see — 
To  kill  or  spare, 
To  die  or  live. 

Silly  girl! 

Why  desecrate  his  struggle, 

Why  pour  into  his  agony  of  soul 

The  fiery  drop  of  sex 

To  goad  him  on? 

Let  him  crucify  himself! 

Nail  him  not  to  the  cross! 

And  you? 

Tremble ! 

Cast  your  eyes  downward  to  the  earth 

In  awe  that  men  their  own  destruction  will. 

Look  not  at  him  brazenly — 

Like  a  wanton. 


PROFESSORS    IN   WAR-TIME 

Ho,  professors,  lend  a  hand! 

Stand  not  aloof 

And  wisely  smile 

While  all  the  world  is  soaked  in  blood  and  groans 
with  pain. 

You  know  the  reasons  for  it  all — 

Do  you? — 

The  tangled  web  of  cause  and  effect 

That  strains  and  pulls  and  tightens 

Till  it  has  the  world  caught  in  its  hellish  grip, 

Fly-fashion  in  a  spider's  web; 

You  know  the  why  and  how. 

Perchance  you  can  distil  from  all  the  histories,  dis 
quisitions,  encyclopaedias 

That  you  have  writ  and  read 

Some  kindly  counsel  or  ray  of  hope 

To  loose  the  web. 

Let  your  owlish  smile  thaw  out 

Into  the  human  glance  of  human  kind. 

Ho,  professors,  lend  a  hand 

And  help  us  out  of  hell! 


27 


HOW   DIPLOMATS    MAKE   WAR 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  picture  of  an  ancient 
House  on  piles  deep-driven  in  a  lake  ? 
They  used  to  live  in  them  in  old  Helvetia 
For  safety's  sake — at  least   I'm   told   as  much  by 
archaeologists. 

Well,  I  saw  one  used  myself — it's  now  a  bit  more 

than  two  years  ago — 
A   great   big  house   all    full   of   people — men   and 

women 

And  young  ones,  too. 

My,  you'd  think  they  never  knew  they  had  but 
Rotten  timbers  'twixt  them  and  death — 
They  seemed  so  gay  and  unconcerned  and  safe! 

And  then  I  saw  a  crowd  of  boys  amuse  themselves 

on  land 

At  throwing  stones — 
Great  big  stones  they  threw  in  rivalry. 
At  first  it  seemed  to  me  they  pelted  one  the  other, 
But  no!  they  aimed  their  shots 
Straight  at  the  piles  that  held  the  house, 
And  all  the  while  they  laughed  and  cried  with  glee — 
Such  sport  it  was. 

The  dwellers  in  the  house  looked  on — 
And  they,  too,  laughed  and  cried  with  glee, 
For  the  piles  were  strong — no  need  to  fear. 

And  by  and  by  the  boys  to  the  uttermost 
Strained  themselves. 

They  yelled  and  cried  with  fury,  for  none  would 
be  outdone ; 

28 


They  hurled  great  boulders  they  could  barely  lift, 
Hurled  them  headlong  at  the  piles. 
The  dwellers  in  the  house  looked  on — 
And  they,  too,  yelled  and  cried  with  fury, 
For  each  one  bet  on  his  favorite  boy. 

They  of  the  house  egged  on  the  throwers  of  stones, 
Who  lashed  themselves  to  greater  fury,   for  none 

would  be  outdone. 
The  stones  went  whirling  thick, 
So  thick  they  nearly  hid  the  piles, 
One  could  not  see  the  budging  of  the  piles, 
One  could  not  hear  them  bend  and  creak. 

In  a  trice  the  piles  gave  way, 

I  saw  the  house  tip  and  come  with  a  splash. 

It  spilled  the  people. 

They  sprawled  and  fought  for  life, 

And  many  drowned. 

But  the  boys  kept  up  their  heated  yells 

And  quarreled  bravely — 

They  quarreled  bravely  on  dry  land. 


29 


EPITAPH   OF  A   SOLDIER 

I  died  for  king  and  native  land,  ^ 

I  died  for  justice  and  the  right, 
But  most  of  all  I  died  because  a  shell 
Just  caught  me  in  the  nick  of  time 
And  finished  me. 

THE  OLD  MAID  AND  THE  PRIVATE 

He  had  come  home  on  a  furlough, 
Left  hand  in  a  sling,  his  right  leg  cut  away; 
He'd  seen  some  bayonet  work  at  Neuve  Chapelle, 
His  mutilated  self,  astir  on  crutch,  bore  witness  to 

the  music  he  had  heard. 
They  called  him  hero. 
His   maiden    aunts   and   a  whole  bevy   of    maiden 

friends  of  maiden  aunts 
Lionized  him  to  their  hearts'  content, 
Lionized  him  till  he  yawned  with  boredom. 
Now  one  old  maid  addressed  herself  to  him 
With  ardent  patriotism. 
In  accents  stern  and  threatening 
She  spewed  her  venom  on  the  hated  Boches, 
She  burned  their  wicked  bodies  in  a  Hell 
That  made  th'  Inferno  of  Alighieri  look  like  Para 
dise. 

Oh  the  Germans, 

Oh  the  dastard  sons  of  Beelzebub, 

Oh  fiendish  hosts  of  evil! 

Where  is  the  cruel  death  that  would  not  be  a 
mercy  to  them, 

Where  the  torture  smacking  not  of  meek  forgive 
ness? 

30 


No  quarter!  no  quarter! 

And  her  eyes  blazed  a  thousand  lights — 

One  saw  she  had  been  beautiful  in  days  gone  by. 

The  private  listened  dutifully, 

Coughed  a  little  cough  and  fidgeted  about. 

This  atmosphere  was  very  tense,  he  thought. 

"Oh  well,"  after  a  bit  he  meekly  interposed, 

"The  Kaiser,  he's  a  bad  one,  sure  enough. 

But  these  here  common  chaps, 

They're  pretty  much  the  same  as  me  and  all  the 

rest  of  us — 

Pretty  decent  chaps,  you  know, 
That  kill  and  die, 
Just  do  as  they  are  told. 
I  wouldn't  stick  a  bayonet  into  one 
If  I  could  help  it,  that's  a  fact; 
Some  prisoners  I've  known 
Are  jolly  fine,  now  that's  another." 

"Impossible!"  she  snapped, 

Her  eyes  "No  quarter!"  blazed. 

"I'd  crush  them  all  like  vermin, 

Stick  them  till  they  bleed  to  death  like  hogs!" 

"Maybe,"  he  said,  "but,  then,  you  women-folk  have 

got  us  beat 
On  spunk.    We've  no  such  bravery." 


DELILAH 

Did  you  say  you're  strong? 

Did  you  say  your  will  is  free  to  loose  and  break? 

Did  you  vaunt  your  precious  brain, 

Cunning  weaver  of  a  gossamer  web  of  beautiful 

dreams, 
Cunning  weaver  of  an  intricate  maze  of  truth  ? 

But  I  am  stronger  than  you. 

Your  will  to  loose  and  break  is  fettered  when  I 

will. 

Your  precious  brain  is  slave  to  me, 
For   than    your    beautiful    dreams   more    beautiful 

am  I, 
And   than  your  maze  of   truth   more   true   is   my 

treacherous  self. 

For  you  are  the  ice, 

And  I  am  the  sun  that  melts  the  ice. 

For  you  are  the  cold, 

And  I  am  the  heat  that  kills  the  cold. 

For  you  are  the  colorless  glass, 

And  I  am  the  glow  that  suffuses  the  colorless  glass 

with  a  radiant  hue. 
For  you  are  mind, 
And  I  am  the  passion  that  burns  the  mind. 

I  have  but  to  pour  the  light  of  my  beautiful  eyes 

On  your  starving  face, 

And  you  are  my  slave. 

I  have  but  to  dazzle  your  eyes 

With  the  dazzling  light  and  the  clinging  warmth 

of  my  beautiful  smiles, 
And  you  are  my  slave. 

32 


I  have  but  to  shower  my  glistening  knee-long  tresses 

of  black 

On  your  hungering  face, 
And  you  are  my  slave. 

I  have  but  to  clasp  my  shining  arms  about  you, 
And  I   have  but  to  press  my  bosom  against  your 

throbbing  heart, 

And  I  have  but  to  press  my  lips  on  your  thirsty  lips, 
And  you  are  my  utter  slave. 

For  you  are  the  stone, 
And  I  am  the  fire  that  cracks  the  stone. 
For  you  are  the  tree, 
And  I  am  the  flame  that  chars  the  tree. 
For  you  are  longing, 

And  I  am  the  laughing  maiden  that  lures  and  ca 
resses  and  tortures. 
For  you  are  desire, 
And  I  am  the  love  that  meets  desire. 


33 


THE  REPORTER  CONGRATULATES  THE 
ORATOR 

Yes,  sir,  I  heard  your  speech. 

'Twas  wonderful  to  sail  along  the  sunlit  flow 

Of  words  that  gently  streamed  into  my  ear, 

To  glide  like  passive  twig  from  swirl  to  eddy  in 
the  current. 

You  held  us  captive  for  an  hour — 

Two  hours,  no  doubt,  you  might  have  platform- 
chained  our  eyes  and  ears — 

And  generated  our  thoughts  and  sentiments  to  march 
with  yours. 

How  did  you  do  it? 

I  ask  because  my  paper  wants  a  column  of  report 

In  summary.     I've  struggled  hard  this  hour 

Or  more  to  get  the  gist  of  what  you  said — 

Just  gist — on  paper; 

Bah !  I  can't  do  better,  sir,  than  three  poor  miserable 
lines. 

THE    PAINTING 
He  wove  a  color-fabric  out  of  paint 
That  warmed  the  heart, 
He  poured  out  light  upon  his  canvas 
Till  the  eye  was  drunk  with  delight. 
Spots  and  streaks  he  dealt  out  recklessly, 
And  when  he'd  finished — 
See!  a  perfect  vision  sunned  itself  before  you. 
They  looked  at  it  and  asked, 
"What  does  it  mean?" 
He  mumbled  in  reply, 
"A  little  louder,  please. 
I  cannot  hear; 
My  ears  are  not  as  long  as  yours." 

34 


THE  DAINTY  AND  THE  HUNGRY  MAN 
The  Dainty  Man 

I  offer  you  sweet  cakes,  a  thousand  tasty  morsels 
To  tickle  your  palate. 
Eat  and  rejoice. 

The  H unary  Man 

No.     Your  sweets  disgust  me. 
I  crave  a  rougher  fare. 

I'll  try  my  teeth  on  coarse  bread — husks  and   all. 
I  want  the  stuff  of  brawn  and  muscle,   the  stuff 
that  life   is  made  of. 

The  Dainty  Man 

And  let  me  show  you  my  flower  garden  of  languor 
ous,  intoxicating  perfumes. 

Each  breath  shall  be  to  you  a  sheer  delight. 

You  shall  inhale  the  haunting  violet,  the  enervating 
rose,  the  teasing  mint. 

The  Hungry  Man 

No.    Your  perfumes  choke  me. 

Give  me  the  salt-laden  tang  of  the  ocean,  the  scent 

of  horses'  dung, 

And  the  odor  of  smouldering  leaves. 
I  would  not  shun  the  stench  of  the  slums,  for  there 

is  life. 

35 


The  Dainty  Man 

And  your  ears  I  shall  fill  with  splendid  sonorities, 
With  the  liquid  warblings  of  flutes  and  the  gentle 

boomings  of  kettle-drums. 
The  harmonious  hum  of  happy  voices  shall  fill  your 

ears. 

The  Hungry  Man 

I  would  not  be  lulled. 

I   want  my  ears   to  tingle  with   shouts   and   with 

shrieks. 
The    thunderbolt    and    the   creaking   of    ungreased 

axles 

Must  thrill  me. 
And  my  ears  strain  to  catch  the  whispers  of  the 

night. 

The  Dainty  Man 

Come,  see  the  rainbow  arched  o'er  the  earth, 
See  the  glowing  tints  merge. 
Would  not  your  eyes  feast  on  the  setting  sun, 
And  flutter  at  the  fluttering  wings  of  the  humming 
bird? 

The  Hungry  Man 

Rather  the  tangled  green  and  gray  of  ths  forest, 

Rather  the  tangled  motley  crowds  in  the  street. 

My  eye  roams  through  the  thick  of  life; 

My  eye  seeks  the  dancing  feet  and  the  rows  of  tene 
ments, 

The  sunlight  peeping  into  alleys  and  the  palace 
bathed  in  fog. 

36 


The  Dainty  Man 

I  bring  you  many  joys,  subtle  and  rare; 
I  shall  soothe  your  troubled  heart  with  lovely  images 
And  with  thoughts  serene. 

The  world  I  shall  make  for  you  into  a  lovely  and 
serene  abode. 

The  Hungry  Man 

But  the  joy  unmingled  with  pain  is  as  death  to  me. 

And  more  to  me  than  thoughts  serene  are  the  striv 
ings  and  turmoils  of  the  heart, 

And  more  to  me  than  lovely  images  is  the  wayward 
current  of  life. 

I  seek  no  abode; 

I  desire  to  thread  life's  mazes  in  the  open. 

The  Dainty  Man 

Then  take  to  yourself  a  faith, 
Or  you  will  lose  your  way. 

The  Hungry  Man 

I  want  no  leading  strings. 

Here  and  there,  and  then  and  now, 

I  must  be  equally  at  home  on  the  earth. 

The  Dainty  Man 

I  distil  from  the  crassness  of  life 
What  matters  alone — Beauty. 
Take  it. 

The  Hungry  Man 

What  matters  alone  to  me — it  is  Life, 
The  crassness  of  life. 

37 


THE   WATER    NYMPH 

She 
When  did  you  love  me  first? 

He 
When  first  I  saw  you,  dear. 

She 


A  year  ago  in  June 

Out  at  the  farm?    Your  eyes 

Had  not  been  set  on  me 

Before. 


He 


O  yes,  they  had. 
I'd  seen  your  beauty  clear 
As  morning  dew.     I'd  seen 
Your  golden  locks  unloosed 
Caressing  your  white  breasts; 
I'd  seen  them  fall  to  kiss 
Your  body,  dear. 

38 


She 
No! 
He 

Yes, 

You  cannot  know,  but  shall 
I  tell  you  how  it  was? — 
I'd  gone   to  seek,   one  morn 
In  early  spring,  a  still 
Retreat  far  out  from  town 
Along  the  river's  bank, 
A  fav'rite  nook  of  mine, 
Where  bittern's  cry  and  splash 
Of  wild  ducks  scarce  could  break 
The  peaceful  calm.     I'd  gone 
To  laze  around  and  read 
In  quiet — it's  a  way 
Of  mine  when  tired  of  folks — 
Perhaps  to  throw  a  line 
And  pull  a  fish  or  two 
Besides.     The  spot  is  down 
By  Hunter's  Bend,  right  close 
To  swirling  cataracts, 
But  there's  a  pool  this  side 
That's  off  the  channel,  safe 
And   deep — a  splendid   spot 
For  swim  or  dive;  I've  tried 
It  once  or  twice  myself. 

She 

Down  by  the  alder  clump 
Between  the  narrow  beach 
And  grassy  swale? 

39 


He 

Just  where 

I'd  dozed  away,  when  splash ! 
"Some  one's  just  jumped  to  dive," 
I  thought,  awakened. 

She 

Oh! 

To  think  I'd  come  miles  out 
To  have  my  little  plunge 
In  freedom,  just  to  fall 
A  prey  to  prying  eyes ! 

He 

Sh!  don't  call  it  that, 
My  love.    I  thought  at  first 
To  hail  the  diver,  but 
Before  I'd  time  to  rise, 
He'd  come  out  from  the  pool. 
The  "he"  was  you.     So  dazed 
Was  I,  I  stared  and  took 
You  for  a  water-nymph — 
And  so  you  are. 

She 

For  shame! 

Why  could  not  you  have  left? 
40 


He 

How  could  I,  dear?    The  dry, 
Dead  leaves  that  Fall  had  strewn 
Had  crackled  if  I'd  stirred, 
And  whipped  a  flood  of  red 
Into  your  face.     I  could 
But  lie  and  hold  my  breath 
And  trust  you  would  not  know. 

She 

You  could  have  looked  away. 

He 

And  so  I  could.     But,  Oh, 

You  were  too  beautiful, 

My  love;  you  were  my  nymph, 

My  lovely  water-nymph 

So  fair.    Your  golden  hair 

Caressed  your  bosom  white 

And  played  with  sunbeams  bright. 

You  were  so  beautiful  and  pure, 

So  like  a  goddess  free, 

I  could  have  worshipped  you 

And  kissed  your  little  feet 

A-glist'ning  in  the  sun. 

And  ever  since  you've  been 

To  me  the  water-nymph. 

She 

And  that  was  why  you  blushed 
And  stared  so  stupidly 
When  first  you  met  me — no! 
When  first  I  met  you? 

41 


He 

Yes, 

For  you  were  not  a  girl 
Of  human  kind  to  me; 
You  were  my  water-nymph 
So  beautiful  and  free, 
Whose  golden  hair  caressed 
Your  bosom  white,  the  nymph 
Whose  little  pearl-shod  feet, 
A-glist'ning  in  the  sun, 
I  could  have  kissed. 

She 

And  so 

I  gave  myself  to  you 
Before  I  knew  you ! 

He 

No, 

My  love,  say  rather  I 
Was  yours  before   I  learned 
To  know  your  human  form. 
And  if  you  ask  me  when 
It  was  I  loved  you  first, 
I'll  say  I  loved  you  first 
In  early  spring,  the  time 
I  met  the  water-nymph. 


CURTAINS 

I  enter  the  Chinaman's  laundry; 

And  the  merry  queer-voiced  gabbing, 

That  hops  about  while  the  flat-irons  slide  on  the 
wash, 

Ceases.     The  three  are  as  mum  as  shining  door 
knobs, 

And  rock  as  they  stand  in  their  places, 

Clattering  their  slippers  on  the  floor 

And   pressing   and    sliding   their    flat-irons   on   the 
\vash. 

My  ringers  fumble  in  my  pocket  for  the  ticket, 

And  my  nostrils  breathe  the  steamy  air, 

And  the  Chinaman  that  shines  most  like  a  darkly 
burnished  door-knob 

Shuffles  to  the  counter. 

Patiently  he  stares  a  nascent  smile. 

I  find  the  black-daubed  scrap  of  red  and  give  it  him. 

He  shuffles  to  the  rows  of  creamy  parcels, 

Buttoned  each  with  black-daubed  scrap  of  red, 

And  runs  my  ticket  right  to  left  and  left  to  right 
and  up  and  down 

To  find  its  jagged  edge  a  match. 

Ah !  two  scraps  of  red  mate  happily, 

The  black  daubs  torn  apart  by  the  Chinaman's  de 
cree 

Now  kiss  reunion  for  a  moment. 

Must  be  my  parcel!     Romance  has  its  uses. 

"Fi'ty  sick!"  says  he  and  shoves  the  creamy  bundle 
on  the  counter. 

"Fifty-six?"— "Fi'ty  sick!" 

Two  quarters  and  a  dime  clink  on  the  counter, 

Four  coppers  take  their  exit  from  a  coin-filled  box. 

While  pocketing  my  change,  I  look  at  him, 
43 


And  patiently  he  stares  a  nascent  smile, 

While  the  others  clatter  their  slippers  on  the  floor 

And  slide  the  flat-irons  on  the  wash. 

"Nice  day."— "Yeh,  belly  waum!" 

To  the  tune  of  "Fi'ty  sick!" 

But  when  I've  closed  the  door, 

I  hear  their  queer-voiced  gabbing 

Burst  forth  merrily  and  hop  in  the  air. 

For  when   I  enter,  the  curtain  falls  and  the  play 

halts, 
And  when  I  leave,  the  curtain  rises  and  the  play 

resumes. 

Lucy  and  I  pass  honeyed  nothings  back  and  forth 

On  the  balcony 

And  weave  the  ancient  ageless  web  of  romance, 

Each  wrapped  in  each. 

But  when  he  comes  to  join  us, 

The  honeyed  nothings  flee. 

For  when  we're  two, 

The  curtain's  up  and  the  play  is  on, 

But  when  we're  three, 

The  curtain's  down  and  the  play  is  hushed. 


44 


MY   BOY 

There!  way  off  yonder  near  the  farther  end 

Of  the  vacant  lot — 

See  the  little  bobbing  patch  of  brown 

Surmounted  by  a  darkish  speck? 

That's  my  little  boy,  brown-jerseyed 

And  capped  with   sailor  blue. 

Look!  his  little  legs  rock  side  to  side 

As,  chased  by  reddish  patch — 

That's  Jack,  his  little  friend  that  lives  across  the 

way  from  us — 

He  runs  and  shrieks  with  laughter. 
Hear  him?    His  voice  is  higher-pitched  than  Jack's, 
Ripples  merrier  and  brighter  (don't  you  think?). 
Oh,  there  he  trips  and  sprawls — 
Not  quite  as  steady  on  his  pins  as  might  be, 
But,  then,  he's  only  four.     And  now 
He's  rolling  in  the  sand  yelling  splitting  peals, 
While  Jack  bombards  him  with  more  sand. 
She'll  have  a  job  to-night,  his  mother, 
To  oust  the  sand-grains  from  his  curly  hair, 
And  I  shall  threaten  him  with  barber's  shears 
For  making  such  a  nuisance  of  himself. 
Yes,  that's  my  boy. 

Well,  we  must  be  going  to  the  office — 
Can't  stand  forever  gaping  at  the  youngster. 
I'll  have  enough  to  do  in  the  evening 
When,  home  again,  I  do  his  bidding. 
I'll  have  to  swring  him,  lift  him  to  the  ceiling, 
Tell  him  the  story  of  the  bear  and  wolf 
(I've  told  him  that  a  hundred  times  at  least, 
But  it's  his  favorite — and  if  I  stray  in  my  recital 
From  the  version  he  has  fixed  as  orthodox, 
He'll  shout  a  protest),  and,  worst  of  all, 
45 


I'll  have  to  tell  him  why  is  this,  and  what  is  that, 
And  what  did  Jack  mean  when  he  said  "Oh,  cut  it 

out!" 
"Don't  use  such  words,  my  boy,"  I've  told  him  time 

and  time  again, 

But  what's  the  use?     (I  do  it  more 
To  make  his  mother  think  I'm  educating  him.) 
He  had  the  laugh  on  me  the  other  day — 
He  was  as  mulish  as  could  be  at  table 
And  when  I,  all  out  of  patience,  yelled  at  him, 
"Now,  cut  that  out!"  he  gravely  turned  to  me 
And  asked,  "Can  daddies  say  such  words? 
Why  can  they?  tell  me,"  but  I  changed  the  subject 
While  I  helped  him  to  a  piece  of  cake. 
It's  far  from  easy,  Bob,  to  do  the  right  thing 
With  an  urchin — quite  a  strain. 
Yes,  that  was  he  out  in  the  lot, 
My  little  boy.    I  bet  he's  all  one  sandy  mess ! 

DANDELIONS 

He  stood  upon  the  porch,  my  little  boy, 
And  proudly  held  aloft  the  dandelions 
That  he  had  gathered  all  himself.     "Put  these 
In  water,  keep  them  in  a  glass,"  he  said. 
(Behind  him,  mellowed  to  a  golden  sparkle, 
Lazy  stirred  the  pond  beneath  the  wind's 
Caress.    Two  ducks  quacked  answer  to  a  crow 
That,  lighting  on  a  maple,  cawed  a  Sunday 
Yawn.)     The  wind  drove  silky  threads  of  hair 
Do\vn  on  his  face — they  seemed  the  little  stems 
That  held  his  golden  smile  like  dangling  flowers 
Merged  into  one.     I  took  the  dandelions 
And,  thankful  for  the  other  flower,  I  thanked 
Him  for  his  gift,  while  off  he  ran  for  more, 

46 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 

In  childhood  days  I  often  hearkened 

Admiringly  to  bugle  call  of  postman 

Rushing  in  at  golden  dusk 

In  his  parcel-laden  wagon  to  the  open  court 

Whereon  the  post-house  gave. 

I  lived  right  next  the  post-house, 

That  to  my  childish  eyes 

Reared  itself  up  proudly  and  impregnably 

Like  thick-walled  castle  turreted  in  rugged  strength. 

No  unimportant  part  the  post-house 

Seemed  of  my  world  of  romance, 

Scarce  second  to  the  storks, 

Grave  emissaries  from  a  mystic  land. 

One  day  the  little  town  was  all  agog 
With  an  elbowing  crowd  to  see  a  fire. 
The  stir  and  strange  alarums  frightened  me, 
But  most  of  all  that  day  has  fixed  itself  for  ever 
On  the  tablet  of  my  mind  because  the  castellated 

post-house 
Transformed  itself  into  a  longish  windowed  thing 

of  brick. 

The  maid  that  minded  me, 

Lured  like  the  rest  by  the  magic  of  a  burning  house, 
Held  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  to  the  crowd, 
Led  me  to  a  street  I  ne'er  had  tramped. 
It  seemed  another  world,  had  not  the  kindly  look 
Of  street  and  alley  known  to  me; 
And  yet  'twas  but  a  mere  stone's  throw  from  where 

I  lived 

And  gazed  upon  the  post-house  walls. 
She  took  me  through  the  post-house  gate 
Into  the  court  and  then — 
47 


I  held  my  breath  as  we  adventured  boldly — 
Right  through  the  mighty  building 
Out  to  the  other  entrance  leading  to  the  street 
The  crowd  was  on,  the  street  I  ne'er  had  seen. 
Strange!    I'd  never  thought  the  post-house  had  two 

sides, 
And  as  it  now  betrayed  itself  an  unfamiliar  longish 

bit  of  windowed  brick, 
My  heart  was  troubled. 
So  might  a  friend  you'd  known  for  years 
In  a  moment  of  ill-considered  act  or  word 
Of  a  sudden   reveal  himself  a  stranger. 
I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to  think  this  unknown 

line  of  red 

Hearkened  with  me  to  the  bugle  call  at  golden  dusk ; 
I  would  not  let  it  share  in  the  romance  I  had  built 
Out  of  the  side  I  knew — my  side. 

'Tis  well  we  know  but  one  side  of  our  souls, 

The  side  that  looks  out  on  the  open  court  of  self, 

The  side  that's  glamor-tinted. 

'Tis  well  we  cannot  call  our  own  the  other  side, 

The  bit  of  brick  that  fronts  the  world 

And  marks  us  for  our  neighbors. 

I  thank  God  that  I  cannot  penetrate  the  walls  of  the 

soul 
And  see  the  me  that's  seen  by  you. 


MUTUAL  UNDERSTANDING 

My  dog  and  I,  we  get  on  very  well — 
Oh,  very  well,  indeed.     We  understand 
Each  other  perfectly,  you  see.     Each  swish 
Of  his  stubby  tail,  each  upward  pleading  look, 
Each  choppy  yelp  or  squirmy  growl,  is  clear 
To  me  as  any  word  of  man;  it  needs 
No  speech  confirmatory  of  its  meaning. 
Delight  and  hunger,  shame,  repentance,  all 
The  joys  and  pains  and  mental  conflicts  known 
Of  man  my  dog  makes  dumbly  clear  to  me. 
I  read  him  like  a  book — no,  like  a  man. 
I  bother  not  with  dog  psychology, 
But  treat  him  like  a  man  of  doggish  look 
And  habits.    Works  well,  anyhow.    We've  not 
A  quarrel  had  as  yet  (far  more  than  I 
Can  say  of  any  man  or  woman  known 
To  me).     I  think  he  treats  me  just  the  same 
Mutatis  mutandis,  I  mean  he  seems  to  look 
On  me  as  psychologically  dog, 
Just  outwardly  a  man ;  and  when  I  wrinkle 
My  brow  or  read  a  book,  I'm  sure  he  thinks 
I'm  busied  with  some  doggishly  correct 
Intelligible  act  or  thought — at  least 
His  look  is  all  approval.    So — the  moral — 
By  misinterpreting  each  other  wholly 
And  scorning  speech,  two  souls  can  easiest 
In  mutual  understanding  live.     How  lucky 
I  have  no  knowledge  of  the  barking  code 
Or  cut  of  doggish  soul!     How  lucky,  too, 
He's  never  learned  to  talk  nor  studied  James' 
Psychology!     For  then  I  doubt  if  we 
Could  quite  so  sympathetically  chum. 

49 


A   CONVERSATION 

You  sit  before  me  and  we  talk 

Calmly  and  unafraid. 

Calmly  and  unafraid 

I  sink  my  net  into  your  soul, 

That  flows  before  me  like  a  limpid  stream. 

I  draw  forth  many  lovely  things 

That  you  had  thought  were  hid; 

I  draw  forth  many  ugly  things 

That  you  had  thought  were  pure, 

That  you  had  never  thought  to  hide. 


THE  DREAMER  FAILS  OF  SUCCESS 

You  and  I  started  off  for  the  mountain  top 
Clad  in  snow,  standing  out 
Clear  and  strong  in  the  light, 
Clear  and  bold  o'er  the  land. 

You  went  straight  to  the  mark, 

Over  the  fields  and  across  the  brooks  and  past  the 

bushes  and  all, 

You  never  strayed  from  the  road 
Lengthening  straight  over  hill  and  plain, 
You  never  halted  nor  rested  to  gladden  your  eyes 
With  the  sunbeam's  play  or  the  butterfly's  merry-go- 
round, 

But  on  you  pressed,  tireless, 
Intent,  strung, 

Until  you  reached  the  mountain  top 
Clad  in  snow.     But  you  were  too  spent 
To  stand  out  clear  and  strong  in  the  light 
And  look  about  you. 

50 


But  as  for  me,  I  could  not  stick  to  the  road 

That  led  to  the  white-clad  mountain  top. 

Once  I  threw  me  down  on  the  grass, 

Face  to  the  sky, 

And  gazed  on  the  heavy-sailing  clouds, 

Pondering  their  fantastic  forms 

And  giving  them  names 

And  wondering  whence  they  came  and  whither  they 

went 

Unerringly,  like  sail-boats 
Languidly  gliding  along  on  a  calm  blue  sea ; 
And  I  saw  the  tops  of  the  fir  trees  high  above  me 
Gently  nodding  back  and  forth, 
And    suddenly    it    seemed    they   were    camel's-hair 

brushes 

Writing  a  language  of  signs  on  the  sky, 
And  the  signs  that  they  wrote  were 
Heavy-sailing  clouds  in  fantastic  forms; 
And  as  I  gazed  in  the  sky  and  lost  the  hang  of  all 

that  was  near, 

I  seemed  to  float  on  air  and  I  seemed  somehow 
To  bend  the  firs  to  my  will  and   to  make  them 

write  my  dreams 

On  the  sky,  and  the  dreams  that  they  wrote  were 
Heavy-sailing  clouds  in  fantastic  forms. 

Once  I  strayed  from  the  road  and  came  to  a  great 

salt  lake. 

'Twixt  the  lake  and  the  sky 
There  circled  many  gulls 
Cleaving  paths  for  themselves  with  wing-flaps  strong 

and  sure; 
Once  in  a  while  a  gull  would  soar  aloft  and  make 

for  the  sky, 

Only  to  fall  to  a  lower  track  in  the  air, 
51 


And  once  in  a  while  a  gull  would  fly  out  of  sight, 

swift  and  low, 

Only  to  circle  back  to  its  starting  point; 
And  as  the  aerial  tracks  of  the  gulls  lengthened  and 

shortened 

And  criss-crossed  back  and  forth, 
It  seemed  to  me  that  the  gulls  were  quickly  sailing 

kites 

Moored  to  strings  that  lengthened  and  shortened; 
And  as  I  gazed  in  the  air  and  lost  the  hang  of  all 

that  was  near, 
I  seemed  to  hold  the  strings  in  my  hands  and  fly 

the  kites  as  I  willed, 

For  the  kites  were  my  thoughts  and  desires 
That  circled  restlessly 

And  aspired  to  heights  and  far-off  distances, 
Only  to  fall  again  in  their  wonted  tracks. 

And  so  I  lazed  along  the  road  and  off 

And  made  the  whole  world  mine. 

I  never  reached  the  mountain  top 

Clad  in  snow.    Yet  I  would  not  change  with  you, 

For  what  can  one  see  from  the  mountain  top 

That  I  have  not  seen  on  the  road  and  off? 


DISCORDS 

Dearest  friend,  I  pray  you  for  silence. 
I  know  you  mean  to  banish  sorrow  from  my  mind, 
Exorcising  with  your  cheery  voice,  recounting  cheer 
ful  things. 

0  friend,  have  mercy! 

You  cannot  annihilate  the  stream  that  winds  through 
my  soul, 

Mournful  and  sluggish  under  the  brooding  willows; 

You  can  but  force  your  rippling  torrent,  racing  gar 
rulously, 

Into  the  middle  channel  of  my  stream, 

But  the  waters  mingle  not, 

And  my  soul  is  tortured  by  the  flowing  side  by  side 

Of  incommensurable  rhythms. 

You  cannot  hush  the  sombre-tinted  line  of  music, 

Harmonized  in  minor  chords, 

That  drifts  on  the  current  of  my  soul ; 

You  can  but  lay  upon  my  strand  your  garish  line 
of  music, 

Harmonized  in  major  chords, 

But  these  two  strands  refuse  to  spin  themselves  into 
a  weft, 

But  each  drifts  hostile  on  the  current  of  my  soul. 

(You  know  that  mingled  major  chord  and  minor 

Torture  the  ear  with  a  dissonance 

Excruciating  like  the  sawing  of  a  nail.) 

Silence,  friend, 

1  pray  you — dearest  friend ! 

In  the  friendly  silence  perhaps  the  sluggish  stream 
will  seep  away 

53 


In  time,  leaving  the  willows  high  and  dry 

And  thirsting  for  your  rippling  torrent. 

In   the  friendly  silence  perhaps   the  sombre-tinted 

strains  will  die  into  inaudible  mist 
In  time,  leaving  the  current  of  my  soul 
Free  to  float  your  garish  strand. 
But  meanwhile 
Silence,  silence, 
Dearest  friend,   I  pray  you — 
For  it  is  not  merry  in  my  soul. 

LOVE 

Fd  read  of  it  and  dreamt  of  it 

And  longed  for  it; 

Fd  thought  it  must  be  chivalrous  and  vast 

And  nobly  heaven-storming, 

The  word  had  set  my  thoughts  on  knights 

And  valiant  combat,  humble  worship, 

Lily  smiles  received  in  ecstasy. 

But  now  I  know  it's  more  than  this,  far  more, 

And  you  have  taught  me,  love. 

It  means  that  when  your  little  feet  come  tripping, 

A  symphony  floods  in  my  ears; 

It  means  that  when  I  run  my  fingers  through  your 

hair, 
I  cannot  see  for  happiness. 


54 


OUR  LOVE 

Our  love  is  singing,  dear, 
Full-throated, 

Rising  drunk  with  joyous  passion, 
And  carolling,  carolling 
Madly  in  its  abandoned  flight 
Upward,  ever  upward, 
Cloudward,  my  beloved, 
Skyward,  my  radiant  blessed  love. 

Our  love  is  trembling,  dear, 

Deep-glowing 

Like  golden  sunbeam  darkened  in  red  wine, 

And  warming,  warming 

Our  hearts  like  golden  light  that  warms  our  hair, 

Illumining  our  eyes  with  passion, 

Warming,  my  beloved, 

Burning,  my  radiant  blessed  love. 

Our  love  is  trembling,  dear, 

Deep-throbbing 

In  its  ecstasy  of  happiness, 

And  weeping,  weeping 

Shyly,  blissfully, 

Overcome  with  the  choking  fulness  of  its  joy, 

Trembling,  my  beloved, 

Trembling,  my  radiant  blessed  love. 


55 


DANGLING  CORPSES 

I  know  that  which  livelier 

Shakes  in  the  wind 

Than  the  noisy  shutters  down  the  street. 

I  know  that  which  merrier 

Swings  in  the  wind 

Than  the  flaming  banners  down  the  street. 

I  know  a  monstrous  presence 

O'ershadowing  the  life 

That  simmers  on  the  street. 

I  see  the  corpse  erect 

That  dangles  from  the  gallows'  head, 

That  shakes  and  swings  in  the  wind 

And  casts  a  shadow. 

Upon  the  laughter  and  the  bustle  of  your  soul's 

domain 

There  falls  no  shadow  of  a  corpse 
Dangling  from  a  grinning  past? 
Thrice  blessed! 


TO    DEBUSSY 
"La  Cathedrale  Engloutie" 

Like  a  faint  mist,  murkily  illumined, 

That  rises  imperceptibly,  floating  its  way  nowhence, 
nowhither, 

Now  curling  into  some  momentary  shape,  now  seem 
ing  poised  in  space — 

Like  a  faint  mist  that  rises  and  fills  before  me 

And  passes; 

Like  a  vague  dream,  fitfully  illumined, 

That  wanders  irresponsibly,  flowing  unbid  no 
whence,  nowhither, 

Now  flashing  into  a  lurid  flame-lit  scene,  now  seem 
ing  lost  in  haze — 

Like  a  vague  dream  that  lights  up  and  drifts  within 
me 

And  passes; 

So  passes  through  my  ear  the  memory  of  the  misty 

strain, 
So  passes   through   my  mind   the   memory  of   the 

dreamy  strain. 


57 


DIRTY    SPRING 

The  streets  are  filled  with  muck, 

A  dirty  mess  of  melting  snow  and  mud, 

Splashing  recklessly 

As  heavy-footed  horses  trot  along. 

Down  from  the  snow-encrusted  roofs 

An  icy  dirty  trickle  pelts  the  pavement, 

Little  splashes  mid  the  universal  splash. 

And  the  sky  is  blotched  with  dirty-gray  cloudlets 

Speeding  under  the  sun. 

The    porches    dribble   with    wet    and    they    gently 

steam 

Where  the  sun,  piercing  the  dirty  cloudlets, 
Can  cook  them. 

An  irritated  wind  blows  intermittently, 
Banging  doors,  scattering  wisps,  napping  capes  and 

skirts. 

The  snow-locked  beauty  of  winter  is  gone, 

The  rigors  are  loosening  up; 

Clean  summer's  not  here  yet. 

The  city  moves  from  cleanly  cold  to  cleanly  warmth 

Immersed  in  dirt. 

Therefore,  my  friends,  take  heart! 
You  must  not  despair 
When  'the  passage  from  old  to  new  is  dirty ; 
When  you've  left  the  old  realm  of  glittering  cold 
And  have  not  yet  reached  the  new  realm  of  glisten 
ing  warmth; 

When  dead  tradition  is  back  of  you, 
When  the  new-born  promise  is  off  ahead  of  you, 
And  you  struggle  and  splash  in  a  welter  of  mud. 

58 


AN   EASTER  DAY 

'Tis  Easter  day  to-day! 

And  what  a  day  for  rendering  jubilant  thanks 

To  him  who  made  the  day! 

The  snow  has  melted  off  the  streets, 

That  now  smile  in  the  sun, 

Dry  and  clean. 

How  pure  they  seem   in  the  sun  and  the  rugged 

wind, 

How  pure  they  seem  under  the  purer  sky! 
The  sky  is  but  a  rind  of  blue 
Set  o'er  a  vast  and  gleaming  world  of  light, 
The  world  a  blue-surmounted  temple 
Shouting  joy  and  thundering  thankfulness 
To  him  who  made  the  day; 
And  in  this  thundering  thankfulness 
I  hear  a  thousand  voices  vibrant  with  joy. 
I  hear  the  peeping  sparrows  as  they  fidget 
About  the  leafless  trees; 
I  hear  the  rugged  wind  blow  lustily; 
I  hear  the  timid  blades  of  grass  recite  their  matins, 
Promising  to  cloak  the  earth,  with  green ; 
And  most  of  all  I  hear  the  blazing  light 
Poured  earthward  by  the  sun, 
Trumpet  back  a  thundering  thankfulness 
To  him  who  made  the  day. 

I,  too,  would  drown  my  voice  among  the  thousand 

voices 

Thundering  thankfulness,  vibrant  with  joy, 
And  so  I  let  my  steps  ring  out 
Triumphant  on  the  blue-surmounted  temple's  floor 
And  mount  in  thankfulness 

59 


To  him  who  made  the  day. 

And  as  I  wandered,  free  as  bird  and  wind, 

I  met  a  friend  who  hurried  with  a  book; 

I  tried  to  hold  him  on  the  temple's  floor 

To  sing  with  me  a  song  of  jubilant  thanks 

To  him  who  made  the  day. 

Perhaps  the  blazing  light  too  loudly  trumpeted  for 
him — 

He  scurried,  rabbit-fashion,  off  into  a  cross-sur 
mounted  house 

Where  thanks,  he  said,  were  offered  up  to  God. 

SUMMER  IN  THE  WOODS 

The  lazy  day  is  humming, 
It  is  drowned  in  a  languid  drone, 
And  I,  stretched  out  in  drowsy  indolence 
Upon  the  grass,  shaded  but  blotched  with  sun, 
Can  feel  its  lazy  heart  beat  slow  and  warm 
In  sympathy  with  mine. 

There  is  a  thickish,  honeyed  feeling  in  the  air  that 
lulls. 

An    image    vaguely,    sluggishly — half    dream,    half 

thought — 
Begins  to  separate  from  out  the  formless,  bundled 

mass  of  sense 
That  veils  my  soul — 

Gone!  the  wasp  has  caught  it  in  its  buzzing  flight 
And  turned  it  to  a  droning  revery 
That  floats  off  there  before  me, 
Now  biting  thick  into  my  ear, 
Now  thinning  out  into  a  distant  hum. 
It's  all  but  melted  into  the  drowsy  murmur 
That  gilds  the  encompassing  silence, 
60 


When  it  lives  again  as  a  shy  rustling 

That  has  gently  stolen  on  me; 

And  when  I  close  my  eyes,  it  seems  the  rustle  of 

my  soul 

In  lazy  flight  and  shy, 
And  when  I  peer  through  eyes  half-opened  at  the 

sky, 
It  seems  the  whispered  confidences  of   the  clouds 

among  themselves 
As  they  dally  by, 
But  when  I  look  in  mid  air, 
Then  I  know  it  is  the  leaves  fidgeting  in  the  wind. 

What  is  that  faintly  lapping  sound  off  yonder? 

Timidly  it  seems  to  wash  something. 

At  first  I  see  but  trees  huddled  darkly — 

Then  a  ribboned  little  patch  of  silver 

Crushed   between  the  trees  and   the  darker  earth. 

The  river! 


61 


BEFORE  THE  STORM 

Evil's  in  the  air. 

I  feel  it  throbbing,  sighing,  twisting  all  about  me 

And  it  presses  dull  against  my  heart 

And  makes  my  eyes  to  stare. 

Evil  whines  in  the  sickening  wind 

(Like  a  Chinese  stringed  bow 

Whining  out  a  plangent  strangled  jejune  tune), 

The  loathsome  wind  that  drops  from  the  trees 

And  shivers  down  my  spine. 

Evil  sits  in  the  gaunt  bare  forks 

Of  the  dead  old  oaks 

That  sway  in  lazy  apathy. 

Evil  sails  through  the  air 

As  the  greedy  crows  caw  and  croak 

In  their  lumbering  flight  from  oak  to  oak, 

In  their  offal-dropping  flight. 

And  the  leaden  sky  is  laden  with  evil, 

With  the  filthy  dirty-moist  clouds 

That  smudge  the  atmosphere 

And  dome  the  smothered  earth. 

O  Lord!  crack  the  air  with  a  thunderbolt 

And  let  me  breathe! 

A  MOONLESS  NIGHT 

I'm  swallowed  up  in  night, 

That,  flapping  noiselessly  his  giant  bat- 
wings,  hovers  motionless. 

The  blackness  penetrates  me  slowly,  slowly, 

Till  I  vanish  and  am  night; 

The  silence  gnaws  into  me 

Till  I  hear  the  noiseless  flapping  of  the 
giant  wings  of  night. 

Up  above  the  stars  are  not  of  night ; 

They  do  but  timorously  peep  at  the  void 

And,  frightened,  huddle  close  and  shiver. 
62 


THE    RAIN 

Quickening  life-giving  rain! 
Drench  my  loosened  hair  with  thy 

tempestuous  flood, 
Trickling  down  rivulets  that  earthward 

plunge, 
Eager  to  kiss  my  thirsty  feet. 

O  rain,  beneficent  clinging  rain 
That  splashest  headlong  down  from  a 

gray  vault, 

Embrace  my  naked  body, 
Cool  its  fevered  yearning. 

Streaming  life-giving  rain! 
Beat  strongly  on  my  shoulders, 
Burdened  with  care, 
Free  them  with  your  cleansing. 

O  rain,  beneficent,  whipping  rain 
That  drivest  storm-tossed  against  me, 
Play  upon  my  laughing  breasts, 
Happy  to  kiss  thee,  rain. 

4VATER 

Rain  and  snow  and  hail  and  ice, 
The  river  rolling  to  the  sea, 
The  ocean  rolling  to  the  shore — 
I  think  that  Nature  takes  a  deal 

of  time  and  space 
To  have  her  little  say. 

Man  is  artist. 

See  him  put  his  soul  into  a  drop 

of  it 
And  make  a  tear! 

63 


THE  MOTH 

Fluttering,  fluttering, 

A  mad  white  winged  speck, 

Flitting  across  my  vision 

In  quick  little  angular  spurts 

All  jointed  into  a  noiseless  flash, 

Drab-white  like  the  ghost  of  a  fire-fly 

(Should  not  ghosts  of  fire-flies  flicker  by 

day?). 

The  merest  ghost  of  irritation, 
Absent-minded  I, 
Makes  me  clap  my  hands  smartly, 
And  the  little  moth, 
Powdered  in  a  vise. 
Clings,  nondescript  fluff,  to  my  palm. 
First  the  silence  of  life, 
The  bang  of  fate, 
Then  the  silence  of  death. 
Nothing  to  me. 
Anything  to  God  ? 

HELPLESS  REVOLT 

I  have  no  respect  for  what  is. 

I  can  not  mend  and  patch, 

I  can  not  bend  my  soul  to  the  twist 

That  will  make  it  fit  with  the  brutal  fact, 

That  will  make  it  yield  to  the  tyrant  world. 

My  soul  stands  firm. 

It  would  annihilate  all  in  its  rage  and  build  anew, 

Rather  than  bend. 

Therefore  it  breaks,  and  the  brutal  fact  remains 

And  the  tyrant  world  wags  on. 


LIBERTY 

No,  Liberty,  they  shall  not  make  you  die. 

They  shall  not  squeeze  you  to  the  wall  and  choke 

your  life  out 
With  all  their  throttling  collectivities  and   dismal 

efficiency-mongering. 

Or  even  so,  will  you  not  slip  into  the  hearts  of  many, 
When  the  few  have  thought  to  down  you, 
And  build  in  each  a  fortress  bidding  defiance 
To  all  their  throttling  collectivities? 

But  should  they  banish  you  in  very  truth, 

Come  take  my  hand, 

We'll  off  into  the  woods  and  live  on  roots, 

We'll  climb  the  inaccessible  mountain  peaks 

And  melt  the  snow  for  drink. 

We'll  leave  the  hogs  to  fatten  in  their  troughs ; 

We'll  starve  to  death,  perhaps, 

But  not  before  we've  breathed  some  air. 


DUST 

Dust  everywhere! 

I  cannot  see  things  for  the  dust-forms 

Draped  about  and  over  them. 

I  see  a  sudden  gleam  leap  here, 

A  flash  of  steel  leap  there; 

I  catch  a  fleeting  hint  of  rounded  forms, — 

Then  dust  again — clouds  on  clouds. 

I  struggle  through,  like  vessel  ploughing  in  a  fog. 

But  then — see! 

Off  there  a  fire  has  burnt  a  circle  in  the  enveloping 

dust 

And  set  your  beautiful  countenance,  my  love, 
In  glowing  light  that  tints  the  encircling  dust 
To  a  luminous  halo. 
But  the  farther  dust  is  still  a  thicket 
Where  things  are  turbulently  hid. 

WINGS 

If  I  had  wings  to  lift  me  to  the  moon, 

I'd  fold  them  snugly  about  me  and  walk  my  garden 

plot. 
My  wings  are  barely  strong  enough  to  lift  me  to  the 

hillock's  crest; 
That  is  why  they  flutter  towards  the  sun. 


66 


LONELINESS 

Vaguely  fretful,  up  and  down  the  lonely  streets  I 

walk 
And  walk  with  neither  aim  nor  thought,  but  like  a 

shadow  stalk 

Along,  a  sullen  restless  shadow,  lifeless  and  yet  alive, 
Not  with  the  life  of  vigor  live,  nor  life  of  such  as 

strive. 

Fitting  comrade  of  my  moody  self  where'er  I  go, 
The  lifeless  rain  keeps  drizzling  on  drop  after  drop, 

and  low 
And  lower  hang  the  sullen  clouds,   as  were  they 

fain  to  crush 
Utterly  the  starveling  life  beneath  and  make  it  hush. 

Love,  I  think  if  you  were  here,  I  think  the  streets 

would  ring 
With  mirth,  the  shadow'd  take  a  tripping  gait  and 

sing 
And  laugh,  and  then  the  rain,  the  cheerless  drizzling 

rain,  would  beat 
Merrily  down,  the  while  the  clouds  hang  lower  us 

to  greet. 


VEXATION 

Vexation  rules  my  soul. 

I'd  take  a  keen  delight  in  giving  pain, 

In   stepping  on   your   toes   and   pinching  you   and 

tweaking  you, 

In  lashing  you  with  venomed  tongue. 
How  hard  to  keep  from  slapping  your  face! 

How  good  to  see  the  whole  world  scowl  and  squint 
and  sneer! 

In  passing  quickly  by  a  shop, 

I  glimpsed  a  silly  maiden  on  the  cover  of  a  maga 
zine — 

Her  parent  thought  to  make  her  sweetly  smile,  no 
doubt, 

She  only  leered  a  sickly  smirk. 

I  looked  up  at  the  moon. 

The  smiling  man  in  the  moon  they  talk  about 

Is  all  a  myth,  I  saw. 

He  looked  at  me  and  scowled  as  though  to  split  his 

crinkled  face, 
And  if  he'd  had  a  mouth, 
He  would  have  spit  on  the  earth,  I  know. 

What  a  jaded  air  the  houses  have! 
The  snarling  dogs  and  ugly  yawning  cats 
Slink  in  the  shadows; 

Had  I  the  time  to  stop  and  fool  with  them, 
I'd  pull  their  tails  and  kick  them  hard. 
And  what  a  miserable  stew 
Of  scowling,  squinting,  sneering  men 
And  leering,  simpering  women — 
This  aimless  crowd  I  jostle  through! 
68 


'Tis  good  to  live,  you  say? 

Why,  yes,  'tis  good  to  live  to  see  them 

Make  a  sorry  mess  of  living. 

Show  me  a  happy  man! 

I'll  box  his  ears. 

SNARED 

Ensnared  on  earth, 

The  soul  in  pain  did  tumble  restlessly  from 

place  to  place. 
It  found  no  peace. 

They  would  not  let  it  rest  and  contemplate 
In  longing  calm  the  home  it  strayed  from, 
They  would  not  let  it  skyward  gaze. 
And  when  it  sought  a  moment's  solace  on  a 

mountain  peak 
Beyond  the  din  of  matter, 
Unseen  powers  pulled  it  down  and  choked  it 
In  a  fume-filled  pit. 

It  tumbled  cheerlessly  from  place  to  place; 
It  would  have  skyward  flown 
But  that  they  held  it  snared  on  earth. 
It  gasped  for  breath,  yet  could  not  die. 
And  so  it  tumbled,  tumbled,  tumbled  on  the 

earth. 


THE  SOUL 

Lo!  I  am  many. 

There  are  many  chambers  in  my  soul 

With  windows  looking  out  from  one  to  other. 

You  cannot  hold  me. 

If  you  seize  me  here, 

Lo!  I  am  fled  and  laugh  at  you  from  there. 

Sometimes  I  sit  in  a  room  of  state, 

Severely  girt  with  pillars  high  and  marble-white; 

Herein  I  muse  on  principles,  ideals,  morals, 

Herein  I  plan  to  build  the  starward  way 

That  leads  to  God. 

But  if  you  knock,  thinking  to  find  me  in, 

Lo!  I  am  gone, 

Off  to  the  chamber  of  stormy  desires, 

Where  passions  rule, 

Where  I  can  gorge  myself  with  appetites  and  lusts. 

You  knock  and  enter  in  the  room  begirt  with  pil 
lars  high 

And  converse  hold  with  a  shadow  left  behind  to 
mock  at  you. 

My  poor  deluded  friend, 

Can  you  not  hear  your  discourse  grave 

Answered  with  derisive  peals  from  the  seat  of 
revelry  ? 

Perhaps  it's  just  as  well  you're  deaf. 

I  have  a  room  where  angels  sing, 

Where  many  instruments  make  melody; 

Here  all  the  air  is  vibrant  with  celestial  harmonies. 

Here  sorrow  turns  to  joy, 

Here  joy's  serenity. 

70 


I  have  a  room  where  hammers   ring, 
Where  all  is  stir  and  bustle; 
Sometimes  it  pleases  me   to  make   a  racket, 
Nailing  planks. 

I  have  a  room  that's  littered  o'er  with  books 
And  maps  and  measuring  rods; 
Sometimes  it  pleases  me  to  ask  a  question  here  or  two 
And  set  to  work  to  find  an  answer. 

There  is  a  room  I  often  fancy, 

When,  tired  of  star-quest,  lusts,  reposeful  melody, 

Tired  of  labor  and  inquiry, 

I  sink  in  easy-chair  and  feel  a  joyous  life-force  course 

Within  my  veins  and  long  for — what? 

I  cannot  tell. 

Accepting  all,  rejecting  all,  I  long  for  the  unknown, 

I  long  for  realms  never  traversed, 

For  realms  that  shall  ne'er  be  traversed. 

And  many  other  chambers  in  my  soul  there  are — 

I  do  not  know  them  all. 

There  are  some  dungeons  too  that  frighten  me; 

You  cannot  enter  these — 

I've  thrown  the  keys  away. 

I  like  my  odd  ramshackle  house  with  its  countless 

rooms ; 

I  like  to  flit  about,  an  Ariel,  from  room  to  room 
And  fool  you. 
If  you  seize  me  here, 

Lo !  I  am  fled  and  laugh  at  you  from  there. 
For  I  am  many. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  PRESERVATION 

O  Lord,  preserve  my  soul ; 

Teach  me  to  glory  in  its  flight. 

And  make  it  strong, 

Like  the  flaming  red  of  the  western  sky 

That  stares  triumphant  at  the  murky  east, 

Like  the  storm-cloud  that  flashes  and  dins ; 

And  make  it  light, 

That  it  wing  aloft 

And  shake  itself  free  of  the  pressing  weight 

Of  other  souls; 

And  make  it  unafraid, 

That  it  fear  not  the  tortures  of  Hell 

Or  the  thrills  of  dizzy  heights 

Or  the  choking  mud  of  the  depths ; 

And  make  it  indifferent, 

That  it  hear  not  flattery 

And  laugh  at  hate 

And  amuse  itself  mightily  with  the  taunts 

Of  other  souls; 

And  make  it  proud, 

That  it  despise  itself 

And  scorn  the  bribes  of  the  blaspheming  ones 

Who  call  themselves  thy  priests. 

O  Lord,  preserve  my  soul; 

Let  it  not  perish  in  the  cuddling  warmth 

That  kills  all  souls 

But  those  that  have  thy  blessing,  Lord. 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  ^      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 


DUE 
JUN  23  1989 

AS  STAMPED  BELOW 
1-    JUN  25  '91     I5*1™1"- 

JUN  1  8  1993 

JUN  :i  (  • 

JMZ4MUI     ^.BERKELEY 

- 

£EP  1    WZ 

INTERLIBRARY 

•°AN  AUTO  DISC 

SEP  1  2  1994 

JUN  19  19 

)0-  crn 

SEP  Q  Ro|993F 

r\        ***   «  1   inru 

UNIV.  OF  CALIF... 

BFPK. 

NOV  1  5l"l992)fSM 

ftK  ID  I33/ 

^ 

^ 

.     , 
UUT  I  5  1992 

MITODRCJMIO^ 

1   CIRCULATION 

FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


6000733^4 


4701t>i 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


